


In Vignettes

by saltbreaker



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Character Death, Drabble Collection, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gratuitous Smut, Hooker!Natasha, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mentions of Cancer, Mermaid! AU, Mutual Masturbation, Natasha - Freeform, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prompt Fic, Sexy Times, Skinny! Steve Rogers, Tissue Warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-03-09 07:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 17,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13476195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltbreaker/pseuds/saltbreaker
Summary: A collection of AU drabbles and oneshots because I can't write series to save my life.Tags and ratings will be updated as new chapters are published. I apologize in advance for the title ;)





	1. Exhale

His hands are shaking as they move to the front of her dress, his fingers trying and failing to undo a button. Natasha’s lying on his bed, looking up at him through her lashes and his hands are shaking like he’s that frail, asthmatic sixteen-year-old boy. He closes his eyes, willing his hands to stay still and he feels her small one close in on the one he’s placed on her chest.

“ _Steve_ ,” she says softly, her voice soothing. “ _It’s me. It’s just me_.”

He lets out a short breath of laughter at that, opening his eyes to smile wryly at her even though his hands are still shaking.

“ _Exactly_ ,” he breathes, leaning down over her, their clasped hands still between them when he captures her lips.“ _It’s you_ ,” he whispers, his lips brushing against her as he says the words.

He feels her trembling beneath him, and suddenly he’s not so nervous anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥ Thoughts? Please?


	2. Scribbled On A Napkin or Written in the Stars

Steve had the shift after Natasha’s but his class ended at 2:00, so he usually came 15-20 minutes early. If the coffee shop was busy, he’d dip back behind the counter to help out, but if it wasn’t, he’d just take a chair and talk to Natasha as she wiped down the counters.

“So, Rogers,” Natasha pulled the tie from her hair, letting it fall in a wave to her shoulders. Steve watched the curls bounce forlornly, wishing he had grabbed his sketchbook this morning. Natasha almost always straightened her hair, unless she was running late. Steve secretly pined for Natasha’s curly hair. Well, he pined for all of her, really, but especially for the parts of her she usually kept hidden from everyone else.

“-day.”

“Hm?” Steve asked, realizing that he’d completely missed what she said to him. “Question of the day.” Natasha pointed to the chalk board, where she, as first shift, was responsible to choose the question that would give a customer 10% off their order if they got it right.Or, in Natasha’s case, if she liked what they said.

“If you could save 100 innocent lives, by taking one innocent life, a. would it be moral, b. would you do it anyway?” Steve read off the board. “Wow, Fury’s going to be thrilled about this." 

Natasha laughed as the bell over the door rang. A customer came in and ordered two cappuccinos, light foam, so Steve put on the extra apron and started warming the milk as Natasha cashiered.

“People generally don’t like existential angst with their morning cup of coffee,” Steve told Natasha, handing the man his drinks with a smile.

“Eh, Fury could use a little more soul-searching, if you ask me. These wages he pays us, for example? Shouldn’t be legal.” Natasha leaned against the counter, a hand on the curve of her hip. “And I’m counting on you to erase it and put something more age-appropriate anyways.” Steve smiled, rinsing out the metal cups.

“So what would you say?” Natasha sidled closer, until they were shoulder to shoulder and her hair brushed against Steve’s arm. He swallowed, concentrating on shutting off the tap and drying his hands.

“Not moral, never moral,” he reached for a towel, but one was thrust at him. When he took it, he found himself an inch away from Natasha’s face. When she breathed out, he could feel it on his lips. Steve took a quick, shaky step back. “And if I had to sacrifice a life I’d first offer my own.”

Natasha blinked, a rare look of surprise flitting across her face. “Well.” She said, grabbing the chalkboard eraser from under the counter and handing it to Steve along with the box of chalk. “I’ll think of a better one tomorrow.” 

.

The next day , Steve came in to find Natasha smiling at him from behind the counter, her hair curling softly around her face. The chalkboard read, _Steve, will you go out with me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥ Thoughts? Please?


	3. The Unavoidable Regression into Love

They're inevitable, that's what the rest of the Avengers tell her. She always fights the urge to grimace or snort out loud or laugh bitterly and maybe punch the next person who tells her the same thing.

They're complete opposites- Steve was like looking at the sun, his light untainted and unwavering; while she still stands in the shadows, with a dark past she couldn't run away from.

She’s lived her whole life being told her dependence is weakness and trust is an invitation for manipulation. She knows the rules of the game, but still she wants it, to trust and be trusted. It’s why she’s done Fury’s bidding all these years without questioning his orders, yet when he faked his own death and went underground, he still didn’t tell her because he wasn’t sure he could trust her. Which is fair, fair. No one in the world has ever offered Natasha trust without asking something of her first. _Except Steve._ Steve who pulled her out of that burning building, bleeding and broken and told her he knows she’d do the same for him. he’d stake his life on it. She looks at him as he says it in all earnest, can read no lie on his face, and Natasha’s world tilts on its axis. 

Steve told her he’s still stuck in this rut, this endless routine of nostalgia and grim self-loathing. Jogging-work-watch videos of dead friends-visit Peggy-return to empty apartment, rinse. Repeat. And _Natasha_ is the alarm clock in his ear, the hand tugging him out the door. She wants to fix him, is so desperate to fix him and he realizes belatedly that it’s a manifestation of her own secret longing for happiness, how she doesn’t believe she deserves it, but he does. And it’s so breathtaking and heartbreaking that Steve actually opens his emotional front door and lets her in. Lets her take him furniture shopping and feed him sushi and teach him how to talk to women.

(“I don’t talk to you like that."

“Well you’re not dating me, are you?”

“Not yet,” he says, feeling bold.

She looks surprised, a rare expression on her, but it quickly melts into smug contentment. “Not with that kind of kissing, you’re not.” Steve smiles, gently curling his fingers around hers. “Everybody needs some practice.”)

She tells Steve he's damage, but he quickly tells her they’re both damaged in different ways that they might actually be able to fill in the pieces for each other. 

He looks at her with his twinkling blue eyes and she allows herself to get lost in their light and warmth.

Steve found a sense of belongingness in Natasha's smile. In that moment with her, he feels something fit into place inside him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥ Thoughts? Please?


	4. Chained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i've finally written smut! i did it! it's not so bad *sweats into a new dimension*

They’re ambushed. On a mission. Crowded in a hallway, both fighting groups of men with guns and knives and being slowly pushed towards each other. Natasha is grabbed briefly, pinned, her wrist almost broken as they roughly snap on the wrist restraint. On the other side, Steve is struggling as they do the same to him, he manages to tear away as they activate it  _and-_

  _clank_

The two metal handcuffs snap together instead of to the wall. There’s a moment of mass confusion as Steve realizes that his throwing arm is effectively hobbled and Natasha’s mobility is severely constrained. Then they look at each other, recalculate, and Steve hoists up his shield, letting Natasha use him as a scaffold to shoot their way out. They kind of bulldoze out of that shitty situation.

But their ride out is gone and their comms are destroyed. They’re stuck in a foreign country and need to extract themselves.

Steve realizes that he can’t use his strength to snap apart the cuffs or use the shield without completely crushing Natasha’s wrist. She offers it to him, actually, tells him she’s recovered from worse, but really with Steve’s strength and lack of immediate medical attention it would never heal right.

They get to a small motel, a sketchy little place that takes cash and doesn’t ask for names. They have to help each other out of their clothes, debating whether they want to cut themselves out of their shirts or just leave it hanging between their hands.

 

After a couple of days, they get to a safehouse. By now, there’s no boundaries left between them. They get the chance at an actual shower and Natasha just pulls Steve in because why waste the hot water? It’ll be more awkward without the use of both hands.

And Steve just suffers. He has to look at the wall above her head as she soaps her self up, curling his hand into a fist as she lathers it over the swell of her breasts and hips and dips briefly between her legs. To her credit, she’s very utilitarian about it, and makes no comment about Steve’s embarrassing physical reaction.

Then they towel themselves off, this palpable _tension_ simmering between them. Steve watches Natasha gently dry her hair, aching silently.

Natasha pulls on some soft strapless romper and Steve some pajama pants and they get into bed. 

Steve doesn’t dream much, but tonight he dreams about firm, warm flesh under his hands, nails clawing up his back and Natasha’s laughing voice,  _everyone needs some practice._

He wakes up and he’s tangled in her, his face in her hair, his arms around her waist, spooning her from behind. His erection throbs from where it’s pressed to the curve of her ass. He pulls away immediately, horrified, which wakes Natasha. She makes soft sleep noises as she glances over her shoulder. “You can take care of that, you know,” she says, voice husky from sleep, then she slumps back against the pillows.

Steve doesn’t mean to take her up on it. He maneuvers himself so he’s facing away again, tries to  _breathe_ through it. He’s never had a problem with controlling his libido before, but with the  _constant_ smell of Natasha’s hair, and the press of her body, and the deepening trust and respect between them...

Steve’s left hand slips beneath the waist band of his pants, squeezing at his erection. His entire body  _shudders_ with relief, and a sigh escapes his mouth before he can catch it.

He stills, trying to hear a reaction from Natasha but she continues to breathe evenly, innocently in sleep. He should stop, he should really stop-

“Just do it, Rogers.” Natasha’s muffled voice comes from the other side of the bed. “Or we can get some ice from the fridge but you’ve gotta stop  _vibrating_ like a live wire here.”

Steve grits his teeth, taking a firm stroke up his cock, meaning to make this as fast as possible. He tries to think about nothing, but images of Natasha keep invading his consciousness. The rivets of warm shower water down her neck and shoulders. He thinks about kissing her mouth under the spray, lapping the water off her nipples and making her sigh in pleasure. The pictures keep coming, as his hand on his cock grows tighter, faster.

But he just can’t  _get_ there. Not with his left hand. It’s like he keeps running uphill and plateauing, his whole body shaking and slick with sweat as he fucks into his fist but he just. can’t. get. there.

Natasha sighs in his ear. “Come on,” she says, rolling him over, and Steve’s so weak and frustrated at this point he just lets her, his soft pants tugged low and his cock slapping wetly against his stomach as he turns to face her.

It’s still dark. That much he’s thankful for. He can only see the shadowy outline of Natasha’s face.

“Sorry,” he says, sheepish, breathless.

“Just use your right hand, Steve,” she sighs, throwing it between them like a gauntlet. “We’ve all been there.”

Steve desperately wants clarification on how many times, exactly, Natasha has been there, but he instead drags his right hand to his cock, trying to ignore the extra pull of Natasha’s arm.

It takes just two, firm pulls before he’s spilling, hot and sticky over his own chest and stomach. It feels like the most powerful orgasm of his life, he’s still shaking with it as Natasha slides a curious finger over his abs and sticks it in her mouth.

Steve groans. He doesn’t even have the proper light to  _see_ that and he groans.

“You should lay off the kale,” Natasha says, and begins wriggling out of her romper.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks groggily, deciding to forget about the kale comment.

“It’s my turn,” she says, and then, of course, she uses her left hand, the one cuffed to Steve’s, and he spends a good twenty minutes trying not to think about how soft her thigh is under his clenched fist, or how he can feel her  _heat_ and  _wet_  on the back of his hand. It doesn’t help that Natasha pants and curses in equal measure, her mouth open right next to his ear. Steve’s cock, so recently worked raw, makes a painful attempt to stiffen. Fuck, he can almost  _smell_ her.

“Steve,” she has to moan, before he finally  _gets it_ and rolls over her and slides his fingers into where she’s so slick and hot for him, crooking them as she spits out epithets and digs her heels into the mattress, riding the press of his fingers.

She comes for the first time like that, and he’s so proud, grinding his erection into the mattress as he kisses her shaking thigh.

And when she guides his head down between her legs he goes easy, tonguing and kissing the lips of her cunt with more enthusiasm than skill as she breathlessly instructs him. He entwines the fingers of their cuffed hands, both slick with her juices.

(The next day, when Tony finally takes a blowtorch to their handcuffs, he makes a “ball and chain” joke and Natasha and Steve just look at each other.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how obviously well-thought is the title? and this is a tad too long for a drabble. ugh.


	5. Save Me, Save You

She feels the blood rushing in her ears with every ragged breath he takes. She moves as swiftly as she can through the trees, bearing most of his weight as he leans heavily against her. He groans when her elbow jostles his side and she winces, looking down at the dark red, almost brown, spot growing on his t-shirt.

"Sorry," she murmurs, wondering just how much regret and apology can be put into that one word. She's sorry. She's so, so sorry for putting him through this, getting him hurt, dragging him into her messed up world.

He- _Steve_.

Steve Rogers is his name, the boy with the bright blue eyes and beautiful smile. The boy without a father, who lived with his mom and does the housework to help her. Steve is the name of the boy who saved her once, when she was still new to the town. They were still in middle school then, and it didn't take long before the other kids started bullying her because she looks different. They'd steal her lunch, push her down, call her names and taunt her just for a reaction. It was Steve who stepped in the middle of a fight and dragged her out, and saved her before she turned into something more than that weak little girl who never spoke.

Steve is the name of the boy who always seemed to catch her eye whenever he was around, whose earnest words and sincere empathy wove their way around her heart, who made her yearn for something more. A touch, a word, a life that was never meant for a- a creature like her. The kids at school call her a freak, but they have no idea.

Steve is the boy who was always different, who called her _Natasha_ , with that beautiful smile that she never returned, who talked to her like she was- like she was human.

And Steve, Steve is the boy who caught her, who- who saw them, her and It.

It all plays in slow motion in her mind as she pulls him towards shelter.

It, walking towards her, large and imposing. Her back and the way it hit the bark of a tree, the way the friction had scratched through to her skin. She had been running away from It all her life, from that phantom monster out to get her, It. Eighteen years, and suddenly she was tired of running, tired of hiding, of being her. Eighteen years of running, and suddenly all she wanted was to give up.

And she was ready to, prepared to let It gut her, tear her heart wide open and take her blood. Natasha Romanov was prepared to die. Her senses had dimmed, her weary heart welcoming death, until his voice broke through. She remembers her eyes snapping wide open at the sound of his voice, her gaze meeting his worried, terrified blue orbs as he froze in place for just a second before he started running towards her.

"Stop!" she had wanted to yell. "Turn around!"

But her mouth was frozen, glued shut the closer he got, and somewhere between It turning around and disappearing, the stake was lodged firmly in his spleen, and she couldn't breathe.

She hasn't been breathing for since.

His breathing is shallow in her ear, and when she finally reaches the run-down hut, she drops him on the verandah, ignoring his cries of pain as she straightens his body on the ground.

"Hold on," she whispers, sitting on her knees as she takes his hand. She has lived her whole life knowing not to trust anyone or anything. It will come and get her, and humans, well she's been taught that humans are only out to use her. Alexei taught her to never use her powers, but Alexei is gone now. Fury taught her how to blend in, but she never really did.

And Steve, Steve was the only person who ever made her feel like she belonged, even for a little while, and she's struck by the acute need of him, by the uncanny feeling that a part of her is dying with every shallow breath he takes. In the back of her mind, she knows that this will change things, change him, but she can't let him die. So she pushes away her doubts, and for once in her life she thinks of more than her survival, she thinks of his.

Power thrums within her, vibrating through every pore in her body, and she focuses all of it onto her palms, watching as the color turns into a bluish glow. She holds her palms out over his wound, closing her eyes tights as she presses into it, ignoring his groans to focus on the energy transfer.

The air around them grows dense, a circle of light surrounds them, and when she feels the wound starts to close, her eyes open to watch as the color returns to his lips. He stays unconscious long enough for her nerves to return, and Natasha leans forward, pushing her palms on the tops of her thighs as she leans over him, letting out a slow breath when she feels his warm breath against her cheek.

His eyes open slowly, and there's a flash of gold that turns back into the same bright blue that stares intently into her gaze.

"Natasha," he murmurs, and he's Steve, indubitably Steve, one hand reaching up towards her, curling into a fist as his thumb wipes away the moisture under her eyes. "Are you okay?"

He's still too weak to be fully lucid, and she's certain he barely knows what's happening.

"I'm fine," she whispers, leaning into his touch before she even realizes it. "You need to rest."

He frowns, struggling to sit up, but she pushes him back down.

"That- that thing- what-"

"Rest," she tells him quietly. "And I'll explain everything when you wake up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural being Nat and this human version of Steve is still as protective and as earnest as the superhero one ;)


	6. Sundown

  
She hates everything about her life.

She hates the hospital that she's been trapped in for the past week; she hates that she'd been fine for almost a whole year and just when she thinks she'll be fine forever, that was when she started to relapse; she hates her body and Fury and Clint and her sickness; but mostly, mostly she hates the fact that she's eighteen, and still sharing a room with an eight year old girl in the pediatrics section of the hospital.

Sophie is eight and she's sweet and bubbly and bald, all smiles and giggles, and she has cancer, and it's all so fucking unfair that it makes Natasha want to scream all the fucking time.

She's been in here for almost a week now, stuck with little kids who are going to end up just like her, pumped full of drugs and cut open for just a semblance of hope that flickered away almost as soon as it came.

She had been out cold for almost six hours, the last round of chemo had taken a strain on her body, and when she comes to, it's to the sound of Sophie's giggles. It almost makes her smile, until she realizes where she is, and she hates the world again. She doesn't open her eyes until she hears a terrible attempt at dinosaur noises and sits up to find a strange boy standing in front of Sophie's bed.

"Natasha!" Sophie says with a smile when she sees her, and the boy turns. He looks almost surprised when their eyes meet, and her go-to response is a scowl. But he recovers quickly and shoots her a small smile, even though he stays where he is.

His smile is crooked, and his eyes are blue and twinkly. He is tall and handsome and so infuriatingly healthy, and suddenly she's painfully aware of how sick she looks, with her hair falling out and her skinny body, all bones and bruised flesh, drowning in her hospital gown. She has dark circles around her eyes. She looks terrible.

"This is Steve," Sophie continues, unaware of the silent charge between them. "He's the new volunteer."

"Hi," he says, his tone cheerful as he finally moves to extend his hand towards her. She looks at it for a while, staring at his hand like it's a foreign object, wondering if she should take it, until she comes to her senses.

"I'm infectious," she tells him shortly, ignoring his gesture to lie back down and stare up at the ceiling.

The room grows quiet, awkwardly so. It tends to happen whenever Natasha Romanoff is awake for more than five minutes. He doesn't move for a while, and she wishes that he would just disappear, when she suddenly feels his hand on hers. Her head snaps back to his face in an instant, catching his gaze before she looks away. Her instinct is to pull away immediately, but his grip is firm and he's shaking her hand like they're just two people who met in the middle of the street, or in front of a school locker. Like they're not in the hospital.

Like she's not dying.

Steve is smiling again, and he doesn't seem so strange now.

"It's nice to meet you, Natasha."

He's lying, of course. It's never nice to meet anyone when they're dying. But he looks like he's trying to mean it, and maybe for once she's just too sick to keep her guards up. She won't smile at him. She's not that sick just yet. But she does look him in the eye when she says,

"Hi."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥ Thoughts? Please?


	7. The vines of you, the vines of me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for this trope :p

He's just about to take off his jacket when the the phone rings. Steve contemplates ignoring it, but he sees Natasha's name flashing on his phone. This is her fourth missed call today, and he knows that if he doesn't pick up, he's going to be in it for a long night of Romanoff temper. Sighing, Steve leaves the first few buttons of his his undershirt undone and reaches into the drawer of the nightstand for his phone.

"What's up, Romanoff?"

"Steve Rogers?" He frowns at the voice that most certainly is not Natasha's, pulling the phone away from his ear to check if he has her name right. Yep. It's definitely Natasha's.

"Uh. Who is this?"

"I'm calling from DC Memorial Hospi-"

"Is she okay?" he asks quickly, his pulse rising at the woman's words. "Oh my God, what happened?"

"She's fine. We tried calling her parents-"

"They're on a business trip. She's staying with us- I mean, she's staying at my place."

"Yes, so she told us. Natasha broke her arm-"

"What?" he exclaims as he slams the drawer shut and picks up his backpack, ignoring the change of clothes waiting on the bed.

"And I'm afraid she's not in any condition to drive herself home. And- what's that? She said to tell you to hurry up," the woman finishes, sounding amused. He rolls his eyes, momentarily derailed, but his worry comes back in full force as he hangs up and makes a beeline for his car. He's already backing out into the road when he realizes that he's still in his jacket.

.

It takes him all of fifteen minutes to get to the hospital. A broken arm doesn't sound so bad. Like, she's not in a coma or anything, you know, but it's still pretty bad. And he's sure that Natasha, being the same fiery human being he's known since he was five, is probably feeling crankier and more impatient right now. He speed walks into the emergency room, eyes roaming wildly for a tiny girl with a loud mouth (and a broken arm). He hears her before he sees her though.

"There he is! There's my Steve. Steven," she calls out in a sing-song voice. He follows the sound of her voice, eyes widening slightly when he sees her neck craning out towards him from behind an Asian nurse who's looking at her with what is, undeniably, utter amusement.

"Natasha," he starts as he hurries over to her. "What the hell happened?"

She gives him a dopey smile and reaches out to him with her good hand, winding her fingers around his wrist before she pulls him close and leans against his arm. Natasha looks up at him, resting her chin against his sleeve as she beams.

"I cut my finger," she tells him, almost vacantly, holding up her injured hand to show the bandage covering two of her fingers. "And I fell off the ladder and broke my arm."

"What the hell were you- how did you get here?"

"I drove my car, doofus."

"You drove your car with a broken arm? Natasha! Do you know how stu-"

"Stop yelling at me!" she cuts in loudly. "I don't like it when you yell at me."

"I'm not yelling!"

"You're yelling right now," she pouts, pulling away from him. He looks up in exasperation at the nurse who is clearly trying to hold back a smile.

"What's wrong with her?" he asks, nodding towards Natasha who is back to leaning her head against his hand.

"She's fine," the nurse tells him. "She's just a little off and disoriented from the painkiller. I told her that driving home isn't the best idea, and she told me to call you."

"Thanks," he says gratefully. He takes Natasha's medicine from the nurse, ignoring her grumbles as he winds an arm around her waist to help her stand.

"I broke my arm," she mumbles groggily when she looks up at him again. 

"I know," he says, smiling back at her and gently nudging her forward.

.

She's been quiet ever since she stepped into the car, and it worries him a little, because Natasha never shuts up most of the time. He keeps stealing glances at her to check if she's fine.

"What were you doing on a ladder?" he finally asks conversationally, just to get her to talk.

"It's a surprise," she says, turning away from the window to look at him with a smile. She puts a finger up to her lips and shushes him. The girl is clearly still out of it, and he wonders just what in heck the doctor gave her.

"What do you mean it's a surprise? For who?"

"You, silly! Oops!" She clasps her good palm up to her mouth, her eyes large as she looks at him, and he smiles in spite of himself.

"You mean my birthday surprise?" he asks wryly. "The one ma and Bucky throws every year, so it's never surprising anymore? My birthday is next week."

"Yes, well, that's the surprise," she says patiently.

"Oh."

"I ruined it," she says sadly. He snorts, reaching out to place a comforting hand on her thigh.

"Yeah, you kinda did. But it's okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says nonchalantly, turning towards her with a teasing grin. "I still love you anyway."

Natasha gives him a dry look and looks away but not before he caught the pinkish tinge dusting the top of her cheeks, and he laughs.

.

His surprise party turns into a surprise for everyone else when they open the door to find Natasha sleeping in his arms with a cast on one hand.

"Thanks guys," he says out loud when their loud cries of Surprise! and Happy birthday! falter. "But erm- I need to put her upstairs. She fell off a ladder," he explains when Bucky starts to open his mouth. "And she cut herself, or something."

"Do you mean to say that those red stains on the tissues I threw away were her blood?" Darcy whispers out loud, scandalized. Steve rolls his eyes, fixing his hold on Natasha when she burrows further into him.

"Yeah. Just- erm- hold the party while I put her on the bed for a sec."

.

"Nat, you have to let go of my neck," he murmurs, holding his body up with his hands on either side of her. Her broken arm is resting on her stomach, but her other hand has a vice grip around his neck, and his face is so close to hers, his nose is brushing against her cheek.

"You're leaving?" she slurs, alarmed.

"Just for a little while," he says reassuringly, gently pulling her hand off his neck. "I'm just going downstairs. You're in my room, okay? Go to sleep."

"'Kay."

He sits on the edge of his bed, reaching over her for a blanket. Natasha smiles up at him, and he smiles back, their close proximity making him feel a little uncomfortable, because like, she's his best friend, you know? But she's also really beautiful and kind of amazing, and being so close to her is hard sometimes when all he wants to do is kiss her. But they've known each other their whole lives, practically, and it's so fucking weird how she was just his best friend for years, and suddenly he woke up one day and realized that Natasha Romanoff is fucking hot, even when she's doped up on pain meds. But anyway.

"I'm sorry I ruined your party," she mumbles.

"It's okay. I'm sorry I didn't pick up my phone when you called."

"That's okay, too."

She gives him this look sometimes, like he's not just Steve, that boy she's known since she was five, or her best friend, or, you know, her Steven. Sometimes she looks at him like she's not sure who he is, like she's shy, or something, and it pulls him in, that look. She's looking at him that way right now, and honestly, it's hard for him to look away.

"I love you, you know," she says suddenly. He smiles.

"I love you, too, Romanoff."

"No," she says impatiently. "I mean I- I really love you. Like, really love you."

His heart starts beating faster. She sounds almost nervous, and he wonders how much of this is her and how much of it is the painkiller talking, but either way it's kind of freaking him out, a little.

"Steve?" she asks quietly, looking up at him.

"I really love you too," he confesses. She looks up at him like she doesn't even know what they're talking about right now, and his heart kind of feels like it's about to drop down to his stomach. He's scrambling his brain, trying to think of a way to turn this whole thing into a lame joke, when she suddenly smiles.

"Good."

.

He stares up into the darkness as he pulls up his sheets, rolling his eyes when it reaches his neck only to leave his feet cold. He's thinking that it's time for his ma to invest in some longer blankets for the sofa bed. The party didn't last very long because his ma and Bucky were too distracted, worrying about Natasha. But the meds finally got the best of her, and she's been asleep for like, eight hours now. It's almost one in the morning, and he's super tired, but the sofa bed is just way too small for his big frame.

He contemplates dragging his pillows down to the floor when he hears the creak of the bottom stair. He stays quiet, his eyes barely open, as he listens to the light footfalls, and from the dim light, he makes out her silhouette standing awkwardly in front of him.

"Steve," she whispers. "Are you sleeping?"

"No," he says, finally opening his eyes. He sits up, his blanket falling to his lap, looking up at her cautiously.

"Oh," she says. She sits on the edge of the sofa bed, and he moves to make more room for her.

"How are you feeling?" he asks quietly. She's not looking at him, looking instead at the cast on her arm, her free hand tracing random patterns over it.

"I'm okay. I mean, I'm feeling better."

"That's good."

"Did you have a good party?"

"It was okay."

"Oh."

"What's up?"

"I-" she starts hesitantly, still refusing to look up.

"What is it, Nat?" he asks softly.

"Did you mean it?" she mumbles quickly.

"Mean what?" he asks innocently. She looks up at him, her eyes flashing with annoyance.

"You know what I'm talking about," she snaps.

"I really don't."

"I- fine," she hisses, standing abruptly. "I'm just gonna go then, whatever. I-"

"Natasha," he calls out quickly, amused, but still a little alarmed. He pulls her back down to the bed, ignoring her protests.

"Rogers, let me go. Seriously. I am not in the mood for you to-"

He kisses her, quickly, pressing his lips to hers hard to shut her up, and when he pulls back, she looks at him like she's on those pain meds again.

"I mean it," he tells her, grinning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was just a quick drabble but I had fun writing it even though it's not perfect. Thanks for reading! ♥


	8. I'll keep you my dirty little secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I made Bucky and Natasha siblings...just a heads up.

"Dude, you're seriously not going?"

"Buck. For the hundredth time, yes. It's not like I have a date-"

"There are at least twenty chicks waiting in line to be your prom date at the snap of your fingers, Steve."

Steve snorts loudly, throwing the ball hard at his best friend's face, but Bucky evades it seamlessly. It's not that he wants the dude to get hurt, he just wants Bucky to shut up about prom, you know? It just- it makes him uncomfortable.

"What do you care? I thought the lady killer didn't care about lame school dances."

"Okay, Stevie a: it's fucking prom. b: I don't give a shit about the dance, it's the getting laid part that I care about. And you're my best friend. Seriously, man. It's been like, years. You need to get over Peggy-"

"I am over her."

"Uh, no you're not," Bucky says, making a free throw. He turns to give Steve the finger when he misses.

"Uh, yes I am," Steve mimics, picking the ball up off the ground. He chooses to ignore Bucky as he throws the ball into the basket, turning to give the guy a smirk. Bucky rolls his eyes for like a second before he opens his big mouth again.

"Then go to prom, punk."

"Shut it, jerk. I told you-"

"Hey guys."

His head snaps towards the kitchen door at the sound of her voice, turning to send her a quick smile. Natasha stands in the doorway. She's still carrying her backpack, and she looks a little breathless, and he's pretty sure she just ran all the way home.

"Hey Nat," he says quietly, sending her a small wave. She beams at him for one blinding second, before she turns it down a few notches to look at Bucky.

"This idiot here isn't going to prom," Bucky tells his sister. Steve rolls his eyes. "Tell him that he's being a dumbass."

"Why is he being a dumbass?" she asks nonchalantly, picking up the ball at her feet to throw it back towards Bucky.

"Because it's fucking prom!" Bucky exclaims, catching it and throwing the ball back down in frustration before he groans. "Am I the only one who understands how high school works around here?"

Natasha shrugs, tugging at the straps of her backpack almost nervously. God, she's fucking cute.

"I don't know. I still have to wait two years before I worry about it. Anyway, mom called you in. There's something wrong with the pipe in her room."

Bucky groans, turning back towards the hoop for another free throw. The ball goes in this time.

"Tell her I'm busy," he says.

"James-"

"I'm on a winning streak, here! Hey, dude," Bucky turns towards Steve, his face lighting up at what is undoubtedly the thought of shrugging his duties of to his friend, as always. "You know how to fix pipes, right? You used to work at the auto shop."

"Yeah, to fix cars."

"Same difference," Bucky says dismissively. "Can you go see what's up? You know I don't know shit about plumbing."

"Bucky," Natasha scolds, rolling her eyes. But she winks quickly when she catches Steve's gaze. "I don't know why you're still friends with him," she says, turning on her heel. "Come on, Steve."

He tails after her, turning for a second to shoot Bucky a dirty look before he closes the door with the back of his shoe once he's in the kitchen. He smirks to himself, ignoring the flicker of guilt that goes through him. She keeps walking, up the stairs and into her parents bedroom, and he's starting to think that it really is about a pipe, when she locks the door behind her and jumps him. He grunts a little at the force of her, but his arms are quick to hold her steady.

"Hi," she murmurs breathlessly, leaning closer to peck him on the lips.

"Finally," he groans, pulling her closer to give her a proper kiss. "You're late."

"Sorry, ballet stuff." She shuts him up with her tongue in his mouth, and he pushes her back against the door. It works for about five minutes until he realizes that her hand is creeping down towards the button of his jeans. Steve pulls back, panting.

"Uh, Nat. We're in your parents' room."

"They won't be back for hours, and you know Bucky's not gonna check in. God forbid he actually has to help," she says, rolling her eyes momentarily before she smiles at him.

"Yeah. But-"

"We could go to my room right now, and risk him seeing us?"

"Here is good," he says quickly. She giggles, nudging his forehead with hers. He grins, kissing her again before he puts her down. They're definitely not going to keep making out in her parents' room. But he's cool with it, as long as he gets to hang out with her for a few minutes. She laughs when he pulls her down to the ground. They sit with their backs against the door, their legs sprawled out in front of them, and she laughs again when he playfully shifts his legs and plops them down on top of hers. He likes it, the sound she makes when she's laughing. It's fucking beautiful, you know?

God, just a few months ago, she was still just Natasha, Bucky's annoying little sister who used to follow them around when they were trying to play their boy things. He thinks about the times when he used to run from her, or risk her dragging him out into the living room to be her audience when she was dancing ballet, and getting in the middle of her fights with Bucky when they wanted to play something else, and just- Now when he looks at her, he honestly wonders why he ever tried to run away in the first place. He snaps out of his thoughts to find Natasha looking up at him in bemusement. He wiggles his eyebrows and she rolls her eyes before she leans her head against his chest.

"So, how long am I going to be your little secret?" she asks.

"Well," he says slowly. "That depends."

"On what?" She's smiling, but it looks a little tense. She's been asking him the same question for the past two weeks, and he knows it's because she's paranoid about him going off to college. Not that they're actually in a relationship, or anything. They just- kept accidentally making out until it stopped being accidents.

You know?

But she's really awesome, and he really likes her, even if Bucky might kill him for it. And fuck it, man, he really, really likes her. And not just because Natasha's really good at making out, or that she really listens to him when he's talking, you know? Or that she takes him seriously, like, she never blows him off, and she's the only person in the world he's ever talked to about college and like, his future, with; weird as that is. And yeah, okay, all those things are what made him see her differently in the first place (that, and that red mini she wore at Tony Stark's party the first time they made out, because holy shit), but there are a lot of other things too, you know? Like, the way she's always so intense about becoming a ballet dancer, and the way that she can be really fucking bossy sometimes, but she doesn't blow a gasket if you call her out on it. And- and her smile, and her voice, and her pretty eyes and her curly red hair, and just- he's starting to realize that he just really really likes everything about Natasha, and fuck.

When the hell did that happen?

She's starting to turn away from him. She's smiling, but it's not a real one, it's the same one she wore that time when they were eleven and she was nine, and Bucky told her to get lost and she said that she wasn't even following them in the first place, and-

"You don't- I mean, I was just being stupid-" she stammers, pulling away from him, and it's making him panic. Like, he doesn't know what he's going to say, he just knows that he doesn't want her to keep smiling like that. He pulls her back towards him. Natasha sighs, her head down. She looks up at him, and like, fuck it. Steve smiles, reaching forwards to tuck her hair behind her ears.

"On how you feel about going to prom," he says, almost shyly. Her eyes widen at his words as they search his face.

"Seriously?" she asks doubtfully. Yeah. Seriously?

"Yea- yeah. Yes," he says, a little more forcefully. "Seriously."

Yeah, okay, so Bucky might actually kill him. But he's starting to realize that he really loves it when she smiles at him, especially the way she's doing it now. She looks so happy, it'd be kind of ridiculous, if he isn't feeling exactly the same way too. He smiles back at her, and his face feels different, like, he knows he's never made this face when he thinks about anyone else before, only Natasha. And he probably looks like a complete doofus, but Natasha likes it, if the way she pounces him is anything to go by. So okay, Bucky might kill him.

But at least he'll be with Natasha while he's still alive.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a feeling I'm gonna regret writing and posting this at 2 in the morning.  
> Thanks for reading! ♥


	9. Sleeping Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In the moments where he knows this isn't a nightmare, that this is all too terribly real, in those moments, all he wants to do is to go back to sleep." Grief comes in many stages. AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from my masochistic fellow shipper, Yvonne. I hate you for this.

She's late.

Almost an hour late, to be exact. He stares restlessly at the clock above the door of their bedroom. They both have late nights these days. She has her ballet rehearsals and he has his overtime. He needs it if he wants that promotion to push through. And he needs that promotion to push through. Especially now.

She told him she was going to be late tonight. She told him not to wait up. But still, he worries. He wonders why she refused to just let him wait for her at the theater. He would feel so much better if he could just walk her home because it's dangerous, isn't it, for a young woman to walk home alone at midnight? The long needle of the clock seem to move at lightning speed and it's already ten minutes past twelve. Where the hell is she?

He wouldn't be this bad about this if she would just answer her damn phone. He's been calling and calling for the past hour and she's not picking up. Steve has half a mind to just walk out on to the streets and call her name. Maybe the rehearsal is running late. Natasha has a tendency to get carried away when it comes to this. It's her big break, she tells him. This is the role that's going to make her. So it would be typical of her to stay back late and forget to tell him. Right? Not this late though.

Where the hell is she?

.

He falls asleep with the phone clutched tightly in his fist.

.

It's two a.m. and the call that comes through pierces his gentle breathing and jolts him back to life.

"Nat?" he asks immediately when he picks up, not bothering to even check the caller i.d.. "Where the hell are you?"

"Mr. Steve Rogers?" He frowns and looks blearily at the clock. 2.03. Where the hell is she? And who the hell is this?

"Yes?"

"I'm calling from the hospital. Are you acquainted with Natasha Romanoff?"

.

Stab wounds, the nurse says. Stab wounds. Critical condition. Trauma unit.

Oh God. 

.

He stares at his phone in a daze and notices five missed calls from Natasha.

12.15.

12.20.

12.35.

1240.

1.15.

He missed her by five minutes. He fucking fell asleep and missed her by five fucking minutes.

He shoots up off their bed and shrugs on his coat. He leaves the house in his pajamas.

.

Twenty minutes later, he's at the hospital. He's out of breath because he ran the whole way and people are looking at him like he's crazy. He can't really blame them. If he was sitting quietly on those plastic chairs and some weird guy started yelling his head off about his wife, he'd be freaked too.

.

He's holding on to her purse. The man who found her handed it over. Steve would've thanked him, but all he could see is that small red stain at the edge and Oh God, that's Natasha's blood. He drops onto the hard plastic seat, purse in hand, and the man leaves without a word.

.

This isn't supposed to happen. He's not supposed to be here. He should be at home. They should be at home, in bed. Asleep. Making love. Doing nothing. Whatever. This isn't what's supposed to happen.

He tries hard to remember the last time he saw her. He can't. He can't remember what happened this morning. He can't remember what he said to her, can't remember what she said to him. His mind draws a total blank. Did he tell her he loves her? Did she tell him she loves him? Did they kiss? Did they fight? He can't remember.

A hand grips his shoulder and he jumps. He hears voices. He looks up. A nurse is looking at him, alarmed.

"Sir," she says. At least he thinks that's what she's saying. He can't hear her. There's a ringing in his ear and it's loud and it echoes around his mind and all he can see is Natasha.

Natasha smiling.

Natasha crying.

Natasha sleeping.

Natasha, on the ground, in a puddle of her own blood.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.

He feels the woman's hand making soothing circles against his back. But it doesn't work. He can't be soothed, he feels like the rest of the world fell away.

.

It's four in the morning. It's been two hours. It's been a hundred years, taken away from his life. He grips her purse tighter. He grips it tight enough that he can feel his fingernails dig into his palm through the fabric.

.

He remembers two days ago. He remembers the feel of her body as she leaned against him on the couch, the way she cried at the end Love Story, just like the last ten times they watched it together. He remembers laughing at the way she wipes her eyes just like a little child and the way she looks up at him, eyes rimmed red, her expression certain. He remembers her leaning forward, remembers the feel of her breath mingling with his.

"Let's do it." He remembers that.

"What?" he had whispered, one hand finding its way to rest on her waist.

"Let's get married," she had said.

"We are getting married."

"I don't want to wait another five months. Let's just do it. Let's do it now. Tomorrow morning."

"Are you asking me to elope with you?" he had asked, his voice slightly amused. He remembers her not cracking a smile, remembers the way she kissed him, deep and tender.

"Yes." He remembers not sleeping, staying up all night, asking her time and again if she really wanted to, if she was absolutely sure. He remembers the way she smiled every single time, the way she pulled his body against her own to shut him up.

They were married by ten the next morning, the first couple to arrive, having waited in front of the building an hour before any living soul appeared.

.

He has a bad feeling. Why is he having a bad feeling? He feels his heart constricting and he feels the burn that has been simmering in his retinas finally spill over like hot lava down his cheeks. He thinks he could possibly go insane at any second and suddenly he sees those double doors open and he sees a man come out.

He shoots out of his seat.

From the corner of his eyes he sees the rest of the people in the waiting area sitting up, alert. He knows he's the last person to arrive, that everybody else has been here possibly hours before him. But he doesn't care. He doesn't give a fuck about them and whoever they are waiting for because Natasha's in there, his wife's in there and this is killing him. He sees the man stop at the nurse, sees them whispering before their eyes swivel towards him. Immediately, he walks in large strides and walks over to them.

"What happened?" he demands in a weak voice that doesn't sound like his. 

"Mr. Rogers?"

"What happened? Is she okay? Is Natasha okay?" His voice trembles and he realizes that it's his whole body that's shaking profusely, refusing to stand still. The doctor lays a hand on his shoulder and he fights the urge to shrug it off.

"She's stable," the man in the blue scrubs says and he sags against the nurse's station in relief. "The surgery was successful. She needed a lot of blood and we had some complications with the transfusion but she's fine now."

He grips the hand on his shoulder in gratitude as he tries to even out his erratic breathing. Steve looks up and the doctor's face is blurry through the tears that are pooling in his eyes.

"Thank you," he says, his voice hoarse and broken and he makes out a smile on the face before him.

Thank you.

.

She's not awake. But that's okay. That's fine. Because she's alive. His stomach clenches at the first sight of her because she's so tiny and she's so fragile and there are wires everywhere and there's a stitch somewhere underneath that gown to sew up a wound that will haunt him for the rest of his fucking life. The nurse had handed him everything she had on in a clear, sealed plastic.

Everything is here.

The necklace Clint had given her, a simple silver chain that she still wears with that tiny arrow that always rests just in between her collarbone. He sees her engagement ring, the most expensive ring he could afford at the time, at the bottom, the minuscule trail of stones glinting against the light as he holds the clear plastic up.

Everything is here. Except her clothes. They didn't give him her clothes.

He sits carefully on the chair on the right side of her bed and takes her hand. He fumbles with the ziplock, and takes out the ring, because that finger looks so barren, so empty without it. Gently, he slips it back on, because she's going to freak out when she wakes up, if that ring isn't on her finger.

He holds on to her hand like a lifeline, forcing his fingers through hers, finding comfort in the way her ring nudges so familiarly into his skin. He leans forwards, drops his head on the bed, and the steady beeping of the machine, the sound that signifies her heart, lulls him into a restless sleep.

.

He calls the office two hours after he was supposed to and tells them he's not coming in. He won't be coming in for days, weeks, months. However long it takes to get her back on her feet once she wakes up.

She's still unconscious. He pretends she's just asleep and it works.

Sometimes.

.

Four days.

It's been four days and she's still lying there, eyes closed, the constant beeping of the monitor the only sign of life. He's left the hospital once to grab his clothes. He grabbed hers too, a few of her favourite movies and some ballet music for good measure. He's camped out on the cot next to her bed and her father come early in the morning and leave late at night.

He plays her music on her IPhone and slips the headphones carefully over her ears.

He says good morning when he wakes up and kisses her cheeks and tells her I love you.

He says good night and kisses her cheek and tells her I love you before he goes to sleep.

He doesn't sleep though. Not really. He stares at the monitor mostly, his eyes tracing the lines of her heartbeat unblinkingly, his own heart moving in time with the beep.

.

It's day seven and he's nearing the end of his rope.

She's still sleeping.

.

He sees the doctor again. He was called in specifically. Steve enters the office with trepidation. He stares at the name plate. Dr. Bruce Banner. He feels the ringing in his head go crazy.

"Steve," Dr. Banner begins.

.

They don't know what's wrong. The surgery went fine. There had been no complications. She just won't wake up. It's been seven days, Dr. Banner continues. He sees no brain activity. Her organs are failing.

What's your decision, Steve?

.

He runs toward her room, practically barreling anything and anyone in his way. He stops at the door, leaning forwards on his knee to take a deep breath. He enters. They're alone. Just the two of them. Just him and Sleeping Beauty. Because she's the princess and he's supposed to be her prince.

"Wake up," he tells her, gripping each side of her small shoulders with his large hands.

"Wake up." He shakes her a little. Then a little harder.

"Nat, wake up. Wake up." He takes a deep breath, leans forwards and presses his lips against hers urgently.

"Don't do this to me," he whispers, his breath quick and hard against her skin. He wonders if she can feel it.

Brain dead.

"Baby," he says again, pushing the doctor's words out of his head. "Baby please. Just wake up, alright? Just come back. Please." He feels the hysteria bubbling in the pit of his stomach and he knows he's shaking her harder every second. He shuts his eyes as a shuddering sob rips out of his body and he wonders vaguely how he's still standing.

Don't leave me.

Don't leave me.

Please.

"Steve." His eyes shoot open and he looks down with all the hope that's keeping him together. He feels a hand on his arm and turns. Wanda. It's Wanda. She's looking at him and the heartbreak that's etched all over her features makes him feel like throwing up.

.

What's your decision, Steve?

.

It's day nine.

"I'm sorry," he whispers against her ear, his fingers grazing the side of her neck. His body is taut and frozen over hers. One inch either way and he's going to break.

"I'm sorry."

.

In the end her adoptive father, Nick makes the choice for him.

It's two days later and anybody who can comes to say goodbye. He watches as Wanda kisses her forehead and turns away. When their friends come in, he leaves the room.

.

It's quiet. So fucking quiet. The beeps are gone.

Gently, he manoeuvres his body on to the bed, bending his long legs to fit the length. He slips one arm under her head and cradles it close to his chest, his other hand splayed over her heart, trying to find the steady rhythm he's memorized all these years.

It's like she's just sleeping.

The wall of hope he builds around his heart cracks.

"I love you," he says, his voice loud and strong. "You know that. I love you. So fucking much that it kills me. This is going to kill me Nat."

She says nothing, and by now he knows she'll never say anything.

"This isn't what's supposed to happen. You're supposed to get your big break. I'm supposed to get that promotion. We're supposed to move out of that shithole we're living in, remember? We're supposed to let our families think that we're getting married in five months. We're supposed to get our marriage license. We're supposed to wait a few years and then and we're supposed to have a family, have babies. Remember? This isn't supposed to happen this way. You're supposed to be old. We're supposed to be old. This was all your plan, so why are you leaving me Nat?"

He knows the tears can't stop, knows that it won't stop. Not for hours.

"I love you," he says again, hoarsely. He leans his forehead against hers and closes his eyes.

He waits.

.

He reaches their (his) apartment and walks numbly through everything until he reaches their (his) room. Steve heads to the closet and as he opens them, is hit with the smell of Natasha Romanoff, of his wife.

They were supposed to register for their marriage license six days ago. Now he guesses that point is moot.

He grabs every article of clothing she owns and throws it on the bed. He slips his hand into the pocket of his jeans and curls his fingers around the cool metal. He makes a space in the middle of the bed, and lies down in a fetal position, the ring he had bought for her clenched tightly in his fist.

He allows himself to fall apart.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unsurprisingly, it's super hard to write them with a tragic relationship, but that was the request. I am terribly sorry for this. Thanks for reading! ♥


	10. Bright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big love to everyone out there who gave this mess of a multichapter fic kudos and reviews! You're all awesome :)  
> Written for a prompt: a night of stargazing (Clint's farm, I guess)

"I think that one looks like a boot," Natasha says.

He follows the lazy arc of her finger into the sky; from where he sits, she seems to be pointing at nothing, but the inky blackness of the night is shimmering with endless stars. He stares up, searching for the cluster she must be looking at, but Steve sees nothing.

"If you say so," he says, and tries not to smirk when she makes a face at him.

"Just a little bit. See the heel? That one star on the edge, it's shining more brightly than the others, and—"

"Don't see a thing."

She elbows him in the ribs, but gently, and he knows she is aware of his teasing. "That one. By the constellation you just pointed out. The two stars on top, two below them, and the three that if you connect them, they form a crooked line."

He can spot it now; there are an immeasurable number of stars spread around them, hanging high over their heads, always more beyond sight no matter how far they travel, but as the stars are unreachable, they are also unmovable, and there are certain patterns of them he will always recognize. He sees what she is pointing at now; the group she is looking at is surrounded by others that distract the eye from its shape, but he can make out the top of the boot, the sides, and the heel at the bottom.

"No idea what you're talking about," is all he says.

"You saw it." Natasha laughs, though she is careful to keep her voice low; they are not too far from where the others are camped though he has a feeling everyone only pretends not to know about their relationship, it is technically still supposed to be a secret. He respects Natasha's request and he's willing to wait however long it takes until she's ready. 

Clint probably knows. Sam may or may not have caught them once in a compromising position. Wanda threw him a knowing smile earlier when she left him alone with Natasha.

He can hardly wait for the day when he can openly express his love for this amazing woman.

"That might be one of the constellations," he says. "That people categorized and named long ago. I don't remember its name or story though; there were so many of them. I don't know why anyone would waste all that time making up that useless thing anyway."

"Well, people probably had a lot of time back then," she says, once again managing to completely ignore the negative aspects of his words. He will never stop wondering how she can always see right through his unpleasant comments, how she can tell when he means them and when he does not, when others take all his words too seriously.

Natasha is sitting next to him on the blanket they spread over the ground, her shoes in the grass and her knees to her chest; she stretches her legs out now and leans her head onto his shoulder. He nearly tells her then they should sleep, because they have to go back to DC early in the morning for a mission but she takes his arm and sighs, a sigh of contentment he so rarely hears, and he decides not to say anything for a little while longer.

"If no one knows the stories anymore," she says, "we should make up our own."

She whispers the words; he turns his head to see her bright red hair in the corner of his vision, the starlight from above reflecting in her eyes as she stares up at the sky again. There is something wistful in her gaze.

"Like what, that boot is huge so it's probably the Hulk's and Hulk's foot is coming to crush people?"

She elbows him again, slightly harder this time. "That's terrible. No. I don't know, the stories don't have to be special. You said some of the old constellations were heroes and characters, but some are just everyday objects or animals or something."

"Alright then," Steve says. "That's Natasha's Boot. That's the name. And the story of that constellation is the boot got taken off first when Natasha went to Steve's room to—"

"Shut up," she says, but when she elbows him a third time, she also kisses him briefly and he can taste her laughter on her lips.

(Years later, when he is asked about his relationship with Natasha, he closes his eyes and remembers this moment.)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got no sleep so that should mean cheesy and crappy, I don't know. Ah well.  
> Thanks for reading! ♥ Thoughts? Please?


	11. When the sunshine breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing was written for a meme prompt thingy on tumblr (yes, be awed by my eloquence).

Natasha woke up that morning craving pancakes, and it was all Steve’s fault.

And really, it was pointless. There was no way she was getting pancakes out here. She doubted she’d even get breakfast, camped out as they were. It hadn’t ever bothered her before, she wasn’t picky. They needed to slip into a base, and that base happened to be in the middle of nowhere.

Which was why she woke up cold and cramped in a tent.

Back at the tower; she hadn’t expected anyone else to be awake that first morning when she slipped out of her rooms to the kitchen at an absurdly early hour. Rogers hadn’t said anything, he’d just smiled politely and passed his as-yet untouched plate over to her, setting the coffee pot on the table where she could reach it.

Natasha had been about to tell him that she wasn’t hungry, and she didn’t like pancakes anyways — but that seemed rude. So he made more for himself, and she ate what would have been his breakfast.

She wouldn’t call it a  _habit,_  per say. They just happened to be the earliest risers and often found themselves together in the mornings. He seemed to know she didn’t want to talk, and didn’t press it, which Natasha appreciated. She had enough to deal with without more people trying to psychoanalyze her nightmares.

But he would pour her coffee — and, after a couple days, added her milk and sugar amounts from memory — and slide over a plate.

Really, she didn’t like pancakes.

But after all the work he’d put into it, she could deal with eating them.

Just to be polite, understand.

One morning, when Natasha walked in nursing a sore shoulder from a mission injury — the entire situation made worse as she’d slept funny to avoid twinging it — as he went behind her to grab some plates, he squeezed her shoulders a moment or two before continuing about his preparations.

She felt like breaking his fingers for touching her so casually, but he meant well. And, honestly, it felt pretty good.

The night that Tony had decided they would watch a movie and Natasha was laughing with Clint; feigning disgust at his suggestion he sit next to her, she stretched out her legs across the empty space Clint had been making for to rest her heels on Steve's leg without even thinking about it. He gave her that vague, polite smile and laid a gentle hand across one of her crossed ankles, thumb running over the jut of bone.

He had nice hands, she had to give him that. Strong and careful and agile.

She examined them the next morning as he slid her plate across the table and poured her a cup of coffee, when he screwed the lid back on the container of flour and as he opened cupboards and drawers.

He had  _really_  nice hands.

Not that it mattered, of course. It was her fault for noticing — and she would have tried harder  _not_  to notice, but for the strange warmth in her chest that she tucked away carefully, to analyze later.

The pancake craving, however? That was all on him.

It was just because she was such a creature of habit; used to routines. That had become part of her routine, and now she was on a mission with nothing to look forward to eating besides ration bars with water to wash it down.

So really, Natasha had every right to be annoyed thinking about Steve and his brief, sleepy smile as he handed her a cup of coffee.

Or how he always let her eat the first pancakes, regardless of how long it took her to join him.

Or his wide yawns, often accompanied by a quick stretch, the white undershirt he slept in catching the lines of his chest in a deliciously distracting way. And, if she was lucky, it would ride up slightly and expose a thin line of the skin of his narrow waist for a moment before his arms flopped back down to his sides.

It took Natasha a moment to place the way she was feeling, huddled in the tent in the slight dampness of the morning.

She was homesick.

“Damn you, Rogers.” Natasha muttered to herself, and rolled over.

She didn’t even like pancakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥ Reviews= Love


	12. Softer than the sky at dusk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Steve and Natasha's first kiss while he's still tiny.  
> Okay, I kind of tweaked it a little :)

“I haven’t …” Steve laughed, blowing a piece of hair off of his face. “Not since …” He tried again, only to start lose his train of thought again, settling for sprawling bonelessly against Natasha on the couch.

“Lightweight.” Natasha said slowly, “I should’ve known.” Because Steve was now stripped of all effects of the serum and weighed a hundred pounds dripping wet.

Natasha took the wine she had brought as a house-warming present for Steve’s new apartment, and hid it under the side-table.

Drunk Steve was more handsy than usual, which was pure torture for Natasha. Every time Steve’s hand landed on her knee or Steve leaned into her shoulder, Natasha had to tell herself firmly that taking advantage of her friend was a no no.

Especially since in this scrawny body Steve looked all of jailbait-years-old.

“What if I can’t change back?” Steve asked suddenly. His thin shoulders were slumped as he stared down at his clasped hands.

The question sent a bolt of panic though Natasha. “That’s a ridiculous question,” she said loudly, “Steve, do you know how many people are working on your cure? You got all of SHIELD’s R&D, Bruce fucking Banner. Also Reed Richards, but who cares about him. Point is, you’ve got nothing to worry about, we’ll get you back on track to winning Mr. Universe any day now.”

“Right.” Steve said, as if he hadn’t heard any of Natasha’s rambling. “But what if I don’t change back?” He looked up at Natasha, his blue eyes looking so much bigger on his thin face.

“Then,” Natasha said, her throat feeling thick. _Then life goes on. Then you never come back to the Tower. Then you’ll keep painting and the rest of us will keep Avenging, and I will have no more excuses to keep bothering you_. “I won’t let that happen.” She said quickly, reaching for the wine under the side table, uncorking it and taking a long drink.

Did nothing for her, but the taste of alcohol had always done wonders to distract her from all the ways she’s fucked up her life lately.

When Natasha turned back, she only had a second to register that Steve’s face was extremely close before, suddenly, she was being kissed.

It was a desperate, clumsy move, painful as Natasha’s lips were pinched against his teeth, but after the initial shock, Natasha’s brain snapped her into action, angling their lips so that she could lick into Steve’s mouth.

Steve released a small, fluttery moan, which Natasha swallowed greedily, nipping at his thin, soft lips. Steve tasted like wine - the rich, heady taste making Natasha drunk quicker than any alcohol she had before.

Natasha had dreamed of kissing Steve before, but those dreams had always involved standing on tip-toe and being manhandled by a supersoldier. Cradling Steve’s now-fragile body on her lap, Natasha could be nothing but gentle even as Steve threaded his unsteady hands through Natasha’s hair and fisted them in a surprisingly firm grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥ Thoughts? Please?


	13. Pretend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Romanogers for the AU idea of getting into a cab only to find someone else inside. Pretty please?

Steve’s only excuse was that he was drunk.

And he usually didn’t drink. His friends called him a teetotaler but really it was because alcohol didn’t have much effect on him, so it would be a waste. Besides, it tasted bad.

But that night, Thor had brought back a case of mead from whatever Scandinavian country he was the prince of and everyone had gotten wasted and Steve had gotten just a little tipsy. Okay, drunk.

But he wasn’t drunk enough to make horrible life decisions, hence the cab.

They’d driven about a block from Thor’s house, the taxi driver had put on NPR quietly in the background and they were stalled at a light when someone yanked the door open and climbed inside.

Steve blamed his slowed reflexes because he just sat there, blinking dumbly as the cab driver turned around with an exclamation and-

“Hi,” the woman said to Steve, “I’m Natasha. Can you act like you know me? And kiss me. Preferably."

"Um.” Steve said.

“Do you know her?” The cab driver demanded, “Are you going to the same location?"

"I met this guy and he came on pretty hard and I had to tell him I had a boyfriend to escape but he followed me outside,” Natasha said, gesturing with her thumb behind her. Steve could see a guy, tall, scruffy. He looked like he had spotted them and was walking towards the cab menacingly.

“Please?"

It didn’t help that Natasha was … really very beautiful. Steve’s gaze dropped to her plump, red lips. "Sure,” he said, meaning yeah, he’d pretend to know Natasha, but Natasha obviously took it differently because she pressed forward and kissed Steve with vigor.

The light changed and the cab started moving again.

.

“Can I confess something?” Natasha said, propping her chin in her hand and looking at Steve with bed hair falling over her shoulders. _Gorgeous red, curly hair._

“Hm?” Steve said, feeling delightfully languid with the covers tangled around them and Natasha’s warmth pressed against his side.

“That guy at the bar might've not been hitting on me, and might've been a bouncer who might've been mad at me because I insulted his ugly octopus/skull tattoo."

"So you mean-"

"I definitely needed that cab, but the kiss was a little more optional.” Natasha smiled and Steve pulled her closer to him, laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please ignore the title :B Thanks for reading! ♥


	14. In Vignettes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your reviews and kudos! This one is written for my good friend, Eira. Sorry, I suck at this.

**Alive**

He used to move through life on autopilot. Days would bleed into one another until he couldn't tell them apart. Everything was always just the same. He told himself he was pretty content, taught himself to ignore that pressing feeling that always lingered in the back of his mind, the weight of everything he could be missing, the worry that life should be more than this endless routine of nostalgia and grim self-loathing. He was always playing the part of a superhero blending into the background of a country he needs to protect. Until she met her, until she pulled him out of the monotony of his world, with her wide green eyes and her strong and beautiful heart.

Until he truly understood what it means to be alive.

 

**Fluff**

Natasha giggles (giggles!) uncontrollably when Steve tries to squeeze his big body through the make-shift entrance of their bedsheet-dungeon. They're in the living room, and princess Natasha has been trapped in the bedsheet-dungeon all her life, and as expected, Prince Rogers comes to the rescue by accidentally snagging his 'sword' (read: plastic hanger) against the soft walls. The sheets collapse unceremoniously on top of their laughing bodies as he falls on top of her.

"We might be too old for this," he murmurs into her neck, and she grins, kicking away the pillow-rubble at her heels, before her hands move to wrap around his waist.

"Never."

 

**Adore**

I love you. Three simple words in the English language that is supposed to contain the multitude of mixed emotions between them. I love you means Steve and Natasha, together or apart. It's the fights and the reconciliations, the truths and the lies. I love you is them, always changing, always evolving, but together just the same.

I love you.

Three simple words in the English language, and they will never be enough.

 

**First Time**

Her heart is racing, hammering against her ribs when his shaky fingers trace the outline of her panties. His calloused skin feels good against her soft skin, and her stomach caves in when he pulls her underwear, slowly, down her legs. Steve lets out a heavy breath and looks up, his eyes tracing the body he had spent an hour undressing, and when his eyes finally catches hers, his darkened gaze takes her breath away.

 

**Degree**

Love happens by degrees. It starts with finding someone who makes you happy, that's the first degree. The second degree is figuring out that making her happy is just as important. This can last for a while, that bubble of happiness that comes with finding that person you love who loves you back just as much. But love happens by degrees, and the third degree is realizing that her happiness matters more than anything in the world, even if that means living in a world without her in it. Sacrifice comes last, and that's when you realize that nothing could ever hurt as bad as love.

 

**Smut**

They fall back together seamlessly. There wasn't a plan, or a discussion, or any sort of reconfirmation, really, that they're back together again as a couple. It's just one rainy afternoon spent on the couch in his apartment, his fingers buried deep inside her in that way that he knows so well, lips against hers to cover her moans, and when her fingers are rooted deep into his hair, pulling hard as she comes, well, that's when they know.

 

**Murmur**

She traces the scar on his skin, holding her breath when he fidgets. She looks up gingerly to find him still fast asleep, and her attention moves back to the discolored space just above his thigh, the bullet wound scar that will probably disappear before they even start to talk about it. Sometimes she thinks about what could have been, what it would have been if the bullet that went through came from a different source, in a different situation. The thoughts are like whispers in the back of her head, vague murmurs reminding her that if this were a different life, they might not be here now, the way that they are. She thanks destiny then, or fate, whatever higher power that determined the fact that Steve and her? Well they're meant to be. His thigh fidgets away from her roaming finger again, a small noise of discontent leaving his mouth. She chuckles at the frown on his sleeping face, leaning forward to replace her finger with her lips.

"I love you," she murmurs.

 

**Death**

He's not afraid of dying, you know? He stared death in the eye before. He lost count on how many times he's courted death. It's inevitable so he doesn't think much about it. But he is. He's dying, and it still doesn't scare him.

But leaving her to face it all alone? The thought of it terrifies him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't stop thinking about this text post:  
> Steve: I bet I could fit the whole world in my hands!  
> Natasha: Steve, that’s physically impossible.  
> Steve: *cups Natasha's face* Are you sure?  
> Natasha: Stop it, I have a reputation.  
> me: *spontaneously combusts*
> 
> Thanks for reading! ♥


	15. Cheiloproclitic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheiloproclitic - Being attracted to someones lips.  
> There's some explicit sexual content here, kids.

Natasha was propped up on one arm, watching Steve sleep. When she laid down for the night, she’d been alone, but when she’d awoken a few hours later (flinching alert with a hand on her gun) it was to the sound of Steve sliding in beside her, sighing as his warmth curled against her back.

Now it was half past noon and Steve was still sleeping like the dead, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other curved around Natasha’s waist.

He must have had a hard mission, and a hard night. Natasha should be patient and let him sleep.

She settled back under the covers, scooting closer and draping an arm over his chest, pressing her nose against the underside of his jaw. In his sleep, Steve tightened his arm around her.

Natasha had had her fair share of stakeouts. Hidden in closets and vents and cramped corners for hours without a twitch of movement, while booted feet thundered around her and angry voices barked her name.

Today, though, she could not seem to stay still.

Lightly, carefully, Natasha spayed her hand across Steve’s stomach, feeling the rise and fall of his breath under her palm. Love was not a word that Natasha ever used easily (before Steve, ever used at all), but she loved this, the ripple of hard muscle. The man is like a mountain range, the dips and curves of his muscles like ridges and valleys, half cast into shadow as sunlight spills through the window blind. Natasha turned the bluntness of her fingernails to the trail of hair below his belly button, scoring it gently.

She also loved the swell of his pectorals, the thundering heartbeat under her ear.

Natasha turned her head and pressed a kiss to Steve’s arm. Her fingers traced light circles up his abdomen, pausing to rub at his soft nipples.

Steve shifted, and it’s like a landslide, the way his muscles roll and stretch. Natasha stilled until he settled again, his face turned towards her but still deep in sleep. Pity.

Natasha eased her weight further onto his body, eyes flicking to Steve’s face as she gave him a playful, gentle bite at the curve of his neck.

Nothing. Not a stutter in his breathing, no movement behind his eyelids. Well now he was just playing dead and that meant Natasha would have to give him a series of hickeys as punishment.

Not that they would last long, with Steve’s healing. But it was the thought that counted.

Steve’s skin was soft, slightly salty on her tongue. Natasha closed her lips in a wet kiss, sucking and nipping neatly as red marks bloomed all over his neck and the underside of his jaw. Once, Natasha felt the tap of his pulse against her tongue and added another point to the list of things she loved about Steve Grant Rogers.

Now, Steve’s breathing was becoming shallower. Natasha smiled, sliding into a sitting position, the covers pooling at her waist. Gracefully, she swung a leg over Steve’s hips and straddled him, feeling his cock swell against the curve of her ass. She tilted her hips and slowly inched backwards, allowing it to ride the seam of her cunt, moist against her cotton underwear.

She loved his cock, she was not ashamed to say. The hot weight of it, the smell and taste of his musk. The way he fit inside of her so sweetly, so fully, so completely, as if he’d been made for her all along.

Steve was still feigning sleep, though Natasha could see his lips twitching. She was sure he was sneaking peeks at her from under his arm.

Slowly, teasingly, Natasha peeled off her thin sleep tank, freeing her skin to the cool of the room and the pale daylight. Her nipples puckered, and stiffened.  Steve’s mouth fell open, and he swiped his tongue against his bottom lip.

Natasha laughed quietly, reaching to brush her fingers against Steve’s slick mouth, lightly pinching his plump bottom lip and rolling it between her fingers, then easing her middle and ring fingers into the wet heat.

“I love your lips, so plump, so red,” Natasha sighed, scarcely noticing she was speaking aloud. “Your mouth, especially."

Steve’s arm fell off of his eyes, and Natasha realized she had broken their little game. When she moved to withdraw her hand, he grabbed her wrist, watching her with dark eyes as he slowly, sensually, sucked at her fingers.

Natasha made a small noise, pressing back against Steve’s cock, and grinding on it.

Steve nipped at the pads of her fingers gently before letting her go.

"Sorry,” Natasha said insincerely, “I should’ve let you sleep."

Steve brought his hands down to cup the backs of her thighs, rubbing and squeezing along their length. "Well I’m awake now,” he said, giving her a lazy smile. “Why don’t you tell me more about what you love about me?"

Natasha leaned down and placed a gentle, wet kiss on Steve’s soft lips. "No,” she whispered as she pressed her forehead against his. “It’s just your mouth."

She wasn’t going to give her secrets up that easily.

(Later, Steve kissed his way down to her swollen, well-loved cunt and showed her why this mouth, indeed, should be appreciated.

Even later, Natasha takes a pen to a stack of post-it notes and for the next week, whenever Steve went to the refrigerator or opened the medicine cabinet, or opened the case for his shield, a new one would flutter out, reading something like,

_your fingers are long, thick. a real artist's hands. you move like you’re drawing a masterpiece inside of me_

and Steve would be left with a throbbing erection for the rest of the day.)

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This became less about the lips than originally intended. Oops.  
> Thanks for reading! ♥


	16. Pitrechor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Petrichor - The smell of dry rain on the ground.

Steve laughed.

The sky was in explosions above him, the bright blue blotted out with grey and sharp orange. His ear was still ringing, echoed by the rhythmic pulse of pain emanating from the bottom of his skull where it had bounced on the concrete two seconds ago. 

“What’s so funny?” Natasha asked, climbing shakily to her knees. She had grit in her hair and blood on her cheek. Steve raised a hand to brush it away, but he was too far to make contact.

The comm in Steve’s ear buzzed in and out. Civilians successfully contained. No anticipated casualties. The threat has been eliminated. They had saved the world. Again. They did it. They did it.

“We’re human,” Steve said, his laughter slowing as he watched the explosions burst like fireworks. “We are so, so human. Why do we do it? We must be crazy."

"I think you have a concussion,” Natasha says, but she sounds amused as she moves towards him. Her hand feels cool against Steve's forehead. "You're a super soldier, remember?"

“Yeah, you’re right,” Steve says with a wince. “You probably should tape up your ribs."

"That left ankle isn’t looking too good."

"You got a little something,” Steve gestured to his temple, where Natasha was bleeding sluggishly.

They grinned at each other, as the smoke slowly started to thin over the city.

“Come on,” Steve thumped the concrete beside him. “Lie with me.”

“Not like there’s anywhere to be.” Natasha said dryly, but she curled up gingerly against his side, not quite touching him but the tips of her hair brushing against his cheek.

“After this, I think I want to take a nice, long vacation.” Steve said, closing his eyes. “Somewhere beachy."

It had rained earlier that morning. Steve remembered the rain stinging like needles against his skin as he fought hard on the ground, trying to avoid the HYDRA tanks, trying to lead them away. The water had run into his eyes, slicked his blood into his mouth, made his entire body feel heavy and slow.

Just one of the reasons for his many near-death experiences that day.

Now the sun was high in the sky, but the pavement still smelled of it. The cloying earthiness of rain.

"A desert maybe.” Steve said, still feeling the damp of his uniform chafing against his skin. “The Grand Canyon. California."

Natasha laughed, her breath warm against Steve’s cheek. "Think bigger, Steve. International. Somewhere where they won’t recognize us.” She curled her fingers around Steve’s wrist, her fingers brushing over his pulse. “That way we can pretend to be human for a while."

Above them, finally, the sun began to shine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Steve/Natasha in the kitchen and sexy times please :)

She comes like a cat when he cooks, hanging over his shoulder, sticking her fingers in all the food. The first time Steve had slapped her hand away, out of habit, he’d been petrified she’d shank him. But Natasha had gotten this strange smile on her face, kissed him on the cheek, and grabbed the mixing spoon full of cookie dough, licking it seductively as she sauntered out.

Sometimes she wonders aloud, in a far too serious tone, what she should do in return, and Steve tells her and keeps telling her that it’s all for her anyway. He bakes and sautes and read cooking books for just the orgasmic noises Natasha makes when she eats his food, and the way she looks so young and happy, rare moments of vulnerability just for him.

And maybe she help with the dishes more, you know.

“Sometimes I think you’re just using me for my lasagna,” he accuses her, as she jumps up on a clean counter, watching him layer the meat and pasta and sauce with dark eyes.

“And your body,” she dimples, reaching over and setting the timer on the oven as he slides the dish inside.

“Could be worse,” Steve shrugs, walking over to her as she inclines her head.

They kiss, Natasha’s fingers slowly pulling open his apron strings, her legs wrapping around his waist.

She’s wearing one of those soft cotton sundresses she only wears around the house, barefoot and quietly carefree. Steve slides his palms up her soft thighs, finding, with an answering throb in his cock, that she has nothing on underneath it.

Natasha breaks away from the kiss to glance at the oven. “You have 50 minutes.”

Steve remembers last time, when he’d been mid-thrust when the timer for the cookies went off and Natasha untangled herself and sprinted from the room to get them.

“I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” he says seriously, sliding one finger into her wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine Steve wearing a "fuck the chef for food" apron *screams for three hours*  
> Thanks for reading! ♥


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon requested: "is it possible to have a sort of 2 in 1? if that's even a thing, like two fluffy drabbles in one chapter?"  
> I honestly don't know but why not? 2 stories in one chapter and even better, fluff and smut :)

Natasha hummed as she carded her fingers through Steve’s hair, sudsy and slick with shampoo. When she’d first moved in, the jacuzzi bath seemed like a ridiculous luxury, but now, with Steve’s body fitted between her knees and his entire body stretched along the length of the bath, Natasha was beginning to see the usefulness in it.

“Body and Soul?” Steve asked, his voice rusty from disuse. His fingers, curled around her ankle underwater, gave a nervous squeeze.

“Yeah,” Natasha paused, trying not to betray the sudden excitement she felt. “It’s … amazing you can recognize that from my humming.”

“You are pretty tone-deaf,” Steve said quietly, and Natasha smacked him, laughing.

“Why don’t you try to do better, Mister Rogers.”

Steve’s fingers squeezed her ankle again, then he quietly hummed a note.

“My life a wreck you’re making,” he drawled slowly, his voice ringing in the tiled bathroom. “You know I’m yours for just the taking, I’d gladly surrender myself to you body and soul.”

Natasha swallowed, feeling her hands trembling and her heart starting to hurt in her chest, the sound of Steve’s voice bringing back memories of his cool hand on her feverish forehead, crooning her to sleep, his husky voice in her ear as he spun her around the room, making music for them to dance to.

 _I love you_ , she suddenly wanted to say, _I never stopped_.

Steve’s thumb rubbed a slow circle on the side of her ankle.

 

.

 

 “… thirteen, fourteen,” Natasha counted, sounding remarkably calm with her legs wrapped around Steve’s waist, and her breast in his mouth. But then again she’d already come twice that night.

Steve sighed, kissing her perky, puffy nipple as he struggled not to move. It was some tantric sex thing, or maybe just some Natasha messing with his head thing. He was allowed to thrust between every round of thunder and lightning, but had to freeze after the lighting hit.

A flash through the open window lit the room bone-white.

Steve moaned in gratefulness, leaning back to give Natasha some fast, deep thusts, making her cunt clench, like it was trying to suck him in. Her fingers scored his shoulders, her moans coming in high and breathy as Steve’s strokes grew shorter, uneven.

He felt the thunder’s rumble through his bones. Steve dropped his head to Natasha’s shoulder, groaning as his hips twitched to stillness.

Laughing, Natasha started the count again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!♥ Thoughts? Please?  
> Body and Soul (Amy Winehouse and Tony Bennett)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seven minutes in heaven, Romanogers style :D

It’s supposed to be ironic, but 1. when you’re high, every fucking thing is ironic and 2. that word has been so overplayed it’s lost all meaning.

Mainly, Natasha knows, Maria suggested it because she wants to get into Sharon’s pants. Which is cool. No one knows if Sharon even swings that way, but Natasha’s always in support of bi-curiosity.

See, she even wolf-whistles when Maria and Sharon tumble out of the closet, pink-lipped and giggling. From the way Sharon’s looking at Maria, Natasha suspects that Maria’s mouth has been somewhere other than innocent for the past seven minutes.

“Natasha’s next!” Maria declares, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Sharon beaming from under her arm.

Natasha scowls at her. This is what she gets for being such a good friend?

“Steve!” Bucky hoots from the couch, and Natasha doesn’t even know who he’s talking about until he grabs the shoulder of the blonde dude he brought with him earlier in the night. The one that had nursed a can of light beer all night and passed on smoking. Steve.

“No, nooooooo,” he protests as he’s dragged to his feet by Clint and Sam.

Natasha, who knows better than to fight it, chugs the rest of her beer. Really, she needs liquor but there’s nothing good enough in Clint’s apartment to sip. It’s a point of pride for Natasha that she hasn’t done a shot since ‘09.

Natasha steps foot in the hallway closet as Steve is herded in her direction, still protesting, but weaker with every word. She steps aside politely as he’s pushed in, making the coat-hangers swing noisily. Then the door is closed, and everything becomes dark.

“Three … two … one!” Sharon shouts outside, and there’s the sound of laughter.

Natasha sighs deeply. “Juveniles.” She says.

“I seem to remember you advocating loudly to play this game.” Steve says, making Natasha scowl.

“That was before I thought I’d fall victim to it.” She gropes forward in the dark until she feels Steve’s arm. Man, nice biceps. Really … firm.

“You’re making kissing me sound like a real chore.” Steve says dryly, turning so that Natasha is pressed to his chest. In the sliver of light from between the closet doors, she sees that his eyes are blue. Once, drunk, Natasha remembers going on a scathing rant about the arbitrary over-romanticization of eye color, but Steve’s eyes are. Nice.

“We could just stand here for seven minutes, you know.” Natasha says.

“We could.” Steve replies. Then, infuriatingly, makes no more moves.

“Jesus,” Natasha mutters, and drags his head down for a kiss.

It’s as awkward as she should’ve expected. Their teeth clash, their noses smoosh. Steve tastes like the shitty frat beer he’d been nursing all night. Natasha nips his bottom lip in frustration and Steve makes this little hurt sound and steps forward abruptly, slamming Natasha into the wall of the closet.

“Oh,” he says breathlessly, “Sorry, I-”

“Don’t be,” Natasha didn’t know her voice could sound this low, or that her body could react like this to a hot guy manhandling her into a wall. She grabs his shoulders for leverage and jumps up, trusting him to catch her as she entwines her legs around his waist.

Steve doesn’t even stagger, holding her weight easily with one hand under her high and another on her ass.

She’s at a higher level than him now, and bends down to press her lips against his. It’s better with her holding his face between her hands. He’s still a little too tentative. Slow on the uptake.

“Is this your first kiss or something?” She laughs quietly against his lips.

“That bad, huh?” He huffs.

“Everyone needs practice.” Natasha says, carding her fingers through his soft hair. “And you’ve got at least five more minutes of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Anon: If you write the hooker!Natasha falling for Senator/Congressman Steve thing I will literally love you forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I'm terrible and there's really no excuse for the long absence. I'm sorry.

He moves Natasha in on a drizzly Thursday night, when Natasha’s pimp had left a shiner on her face. It had been both satisfying and infuriating when Steve had yanked Brock back by his shirt collar and cracked him one on the jaw. Then literally flung a thick handful of bills over his twitching body like some kinda mobster.

Fuck that was cool. Natasha’s always fantasized about doing something like that.

Then Steve grabs her hand and they stomp out and it hits Natasha what a royal screw up this all is.

“So is this the sequel to Pretty Woman where you outright purchase and kidnap a hooker for your deviant ends, Senator Rogers?” Natasha says, throwing as much of her closet as she could stomach into a cardboard box as Steve stands, twitching, in the doorway.

“I’m not kidnapping you.” Steve scowls. “You just can’t stay here. It’s not safe anymore.” He looks like as much of a mess as Natasha has ever seen him hair falling over his forehead, tie askew, the knuckles of one hand skinned raw, which Natasha has no sympathy for because that’s his own goddamn fault - but still far too good for this shithole. Natasha speeds up her packing just so Steve would stop looking around with that critical expression. Yeah, it wasn’t much, but it had been hers. Until this fiasco.

“I could’ve handled it myself,” Natasha says, bumping Steve roughly with her shoulder as she lugs the box out the door, into the hallway. “Now I’m out of a job and homeless, thanks to you. No one on this block- fuck it, no one in this neighborhood’s gonna give me a second look now. I’m fucking tainted.”

"Do you want me to send someone back here for your stuff?” Steve asks, running after her on the stairs.

“This is all I need,” Natasha says, trying not to feel pitiful as she hugs the box to her chest, protecting it from the rain as she steps foot outside the apartment.

“Hey,” Steve says, putting his arm around Natasha, uncaring of his nice suit getting dotted with wet. At least he sounds contrite. “You don’t have to come back here."

Natasha just stares at Steve. She wants to scoff, wants to sneer. Freakin' rich boys swooping in, playing the white knight when they have no fucking idea how the world works. How long till the scandal hits? The media frenzy? How long till Steve decides the hot piece of ass he’s been feeding false promises to isn’t worth as much as his political position? Or maybe he’ll just get tired of Natasha outright and shove a check at her in return for disappearing into the ether.

But right now, Steve’s looking at him with such sincerity, brows drawn up, hair plastered by the rain. His big blue eyes making that part of Natasha, that stupid, soft part of Natasha, melt.

So she shuts her mouth. And climbs into Steve’s shiny Mercedes. And looks out the window as she and her soggy box drip all over the nice leather.

 

—

That night, Steve cups the bruise on Natasha’s cheek as they make love.

Natasha wants to call it fucking, to distance herself, but it’s always been- Steve’s always been sentimental.

Tonight Natasha had been angry, thrown herself at Steve, drawing out a bead of blood from his bottom lip as she tore off Steve’s ruined suit. She just wants to feel used so she can remind herself what this really is. But fucking- fucking Steve goes so pliant in her hands, so gentle as he eases Natasha onto the sheets (silky sheets, fucking 1000-thread count sheets) and licked the rainwater off of her neck.

Even when Natasha turns, thrusting her ass up and burying her face in the pillows, Steve just curves his body over Natasha’s, pressing them together that it makes Natasha’s thighs tremble.

"I’ll never let anyone do this to you again,” Steve whispers as he makes Natasha come, one hand wrapped tight around her waist and the other gently brushing over her cheek. “I’m going to take care of you.”

Natasha cries out as she comes onto the bedsheets, her heart throbbing like a fresh bruise.

—

Natasha sleeps late, wakes up with the bright noon sun behind her eyelids. For a second, she flails on the too-large bed, but then, blinking, remembers the predawn grey, when Steve had brushed a kiss on her head before he’d left for work.

With a soft moan, Natasha slides out of bed, her toes curling in the plush carpet.

She doesn’t cover her nudity as she pads to the living room, but all the clothes that were scattered there last night are gone. Natasha scowls at the emptiness, picturing a housekeeper picking up her ripped skinny jeans and nearly translucent black tank. Fuck, her nice leather jacket.

The only clothes he can find are Steve’s. Steve’s massive rotating closet of clothing. The suits are expensive-looking but so conservative.

Natasha rubs at the sleeves. She’s distracted for a good twenty minutes by Steve’s perfectly shined, organized shoe closet.

Eventually, she manages to pull on some pajama pants and explore the rest of the penthouse. There’s a kitchen, with marble countertops and appliances so new and shiny Natasha knows they haven’t gotten a day’s use.

There’s a room just full of books. Natasha spends more than an hour in there, running her fingers over their spines and feeling hesitant to even touch them. In school - whenever she could get to school between being shuffled around between foster homes - she’d been a voracious reader. Went to every class. Did all her homework. She thinks she would’ve gotten good grades if anybody let her stick around.

She finally pulls out one volume of an atlas, a book bound in leather that looks older than she is, only to find that behind it is a row of hidden little paperbacks. Adventure stories and westerns and even romance novels, with their spines worn and pages dog-eared. Feeling unaccountably charmed, Natasha replaces the atlas.

She makes some coffee in Steve’s complicated-looking machine. Opens the fridge and finds, yes, as she had hypothesized, the kitchen was just for show. Besides the pre-packaged protein smoothies and one wilted bunch of kale, the fridge contains nothing but a mountain of Styrofoam boxes. Natasha pokes one hesitantly, wondering how long it’s been there.

The security system beeps and Natasha closes the refrigerator door in time to see Steve walk in, holding some dry-cleaning bags. There’s a handsome black guy trailing after him.

Steve looks almost relieved to see Natasha in her kitchen. Like Natasha was going to fucking jet when Steve had burned all his fucking bridges.

“Nat,” Steve said, stepping aside to throw the dry-cleaning bags over a chair. “This is Sam Wilson. My bodyguard.” Sam gives a grin and a short wave, giving Natasha a quick up-down that’s more law enforcement than sexually interested.

“Sam,” Steve beams, _fucking beams_ at Natasha, “This is my …”

Natasha watches Steve flounder for a second before cutting in. “Hooker. I’m her hooker.” She grins as Steve ducks his head, blushing. Sam just looks bemused. “Now who do I have to blow around here to get a sandwich?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ♥


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merm!AU requested by a follower. I've been awake for almost 32 hours so you have to bear with this one ;)

“I have another question about humans.”

This seemed to be Natasha’s near-constant refrain, and Steve’s shoulders sagged. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to try to explain cable television, tax audits, or the entire concept of deodorant again.

“Why shirts?”

Steve’s eyebrows gathered, and he looked at Natasha with narrowed gaze. The question sounded innocent enough—which was why his suspicion skyrocketed. She was sprawled out on the rock next to him on her back, eyes shut against the drenching sunlight that tingled on her bare shoulders. Her tail flipped lazily in the water, occasionally flicking salt spray onto both of them.

“Why shirts what?” Steve asked warily.

“Why wear them?” she clarified, cracking one eye open to look at him. The corner of her mouth twisted up, it didn't even ruin her angelic composure. There it is.

Steve blew air out through his nose. “Remember the deodorant conversation? It’s called basic decency.”

Natasha shut her eye again, but the smile stayed.

“Maybe for you.”

Steve bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The smirk that had been developing on Natasha’s lips suddenly burst into a full, toothed grin, and she sat up so quickly that he almost flinched away.

“So, does this mean you find me indecent?” she asked. Her voice was low, and raspy with salt. Steve felt like he was locked in place. Under the baking blue sky, an entirely different kind of heat poured into his cheeks.

“Uh…um.” He fumbled with his tongue. How did words happen?

“You’re—you’re unconventional,” he said, after too long a pause. He felt like patting himself on the back for fishing a five-syllable word out of the mush that was his brain. Perfect. _Good job, Steve_. “Not indecent.” 

Natasha's lips pulled downward in disappointed.

“But I’m shirtless,” she said sulkily.

Steve’s eyes flicked to her shoulders. Then lower. His blood heats and sings.

“You sure are.”

Neither of them spoke. Against the shore, water crashed, swirled, tugged itself back into the ocean in a white, whispering froth. Distantly, on the spires of rocks that rose from the sea like gigantic fingers, gulls were shrieking.

Steve pulled himself closer to Natasha, maneuvering on the slippery rock with more caution.

“I like unconventional,” he said, bumping his shoulder with hers. 

Natasha snorted. “I know.”

“Hey!” Steve began to scoot away from her again, but Natasha’s arm shot out, dragging him closer. Her other hand took his chin, turning his head to face her. His breath hitched in his throat at how close she was, how she smelled of sea and salt and the peculiar, warm, lavender scent that was more human than mermaid.

“I still don’t get the shirt thing,” Natasha whispered, before she kissed him. Every nerve was bright and alive; his heart soared.

The water pushed and murmured on the beach, and far away, the gulls were quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥ Thoughts? Please?


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